Brazil Nut

Email comes in flavors.

My inbox is as ecclectic as anyone else’s, I suppose, but some weeks there will be a flurry of notes all of a certain flavor to savor. This week it has a Brazilian flair... with under tones of wood smoke, finely shredded collard greens sauteéing with sesame oil, yucca flour, garlic and onion, and piquant coffee extending its steamy fingers to pull me closer to its source. 

This may be the year of my return to the mountains outside Belo Horizonte. Some of my buddies, from previous trips there, are making noises about returning soon. It’s time to renew my visa. I’m ready to immerse myself for a fourth time in the poetry of Portuguese, the simplicity of breaking bread by the wood-fire cook stove, dipping it in a rich stew, and telling stories and singing into the night. Etched in my cells is the thrill of the all night rhythms of the congas as backdrop for my shaman’s deep baritone - singing us through colorful ceremony until the cock’s crow signals sunrise. 

My first trip, which lasted a short 14 days in 2004, was a glimpse into a tight-knit spiritual group making the biggest pot of stone soup imaginable. As the mines in Minas Gerais close down, the people need to find work. Gathering together to share the gifts that each person offers, has tremendous power to grow hope instead of despair; empowerment intsead of  helplessness. Each person in this community is bound by the common thread of spiritual belief and practice.

Someone in the group knows how to grow firewood to sell, another how to make candles. Organic gardening and cultlivation of the land are the domain of others in the group, while some folks farm fresh water fish in a hand-dug triangular lake fed by mountain streams. The community members feed each other.

My second visit, for a month in 2005, included a trip to Salvador, Bahia - bookended by stays at the spiritual community in Belo. The climate, culture and food of the eastern coastal town are completely different from the mountains. The tropical vegetation includes many varieties of palms. Coconut palms yield fresh, young nuts - filled with sweet coco-nut water and custard-like flesh. Another palm drops nuts not much bigger than grapes that are bright red on the outside and full of oil called dendé - which colors the food bright yellow and imparts a rich distinctive flavor to rice, fish, vegetables... what ever you cook in it. Mangoes, papayas, guavas, cashew fruits and finger bananas are grown in the tropical climes, but find their way to the mountains to augment the apples, pears and zapote that grow at higher altitudes.

That second trip, I prepared in advance to give back to the community which was so nurturing to me the previous year. I studied up with Rosetta Stone and acquired enough fluency in Portuguese that I could teach them my brand of yoga and help them hone a daily routine to keep themselves in relaxed-back mode.

My last trip in 2009 was a very focused healing trip - blending Eastern and Western techniques, we worked on one another under the guidance of our shaman. That group was comprised of three separate groups smushed together. Miraculous healing happened. It was a very intense time.

Next trip, I’ll relax more, hopefully absorb more by osmosis, and clutch less by learning to soften my grasp.

So many images, scents, sounds conjured by the memories...

The flavor of this week clearly is Brazil Nut.... and, clearly, I AM one!

Who knows? Maybe I'll see Rio!

Work Horses Don't Get the Blues

Depression has been mostly a rare occurrence for me, so I’m slow to recognize it when it does hit. This morning, when I just didn’t want to get out of bed, I asked myself four questions. Am I under-slept? Do I have compassion fatigue from hearing too many sad stories? Is it the season? Is there an anniversary?

I figured that if I answered yes to any of them, it would help me understand and have compassion for myself and not get all sick with shame, or icky with blame about it.

Sometimes, depression is sneaky and gets in under my radar - like food that is progressively over-salted many successive days until the day I finally notice that it’s unpalatable.  

I got “Yeses” to three of the four questions and cut myself some slack, did some yoga breathing and thought about what else might be helpful. I couldn’t do anything about the season except to laugh about the impecable design. It seems that when our ancestors lived in caves, it was a good plan to be depressed during the long, seemingly endless winter. Our species might not have survived without SAAADD (Seasonally Appropriate Apathy and Dumb Down). How would you like to be across the cave from Glurg whose rank belches and toxic farts, not to mention his incessant knuckle cracking, loud sniffing and snoring, could have driven you to homicide (or is it homo-sapiencide) were you NOT terribly depressed and unable to move? Depression is seasonally useful - whether we recognize it or not in our artificial-light-and-temperature-controlled world.

I lack the constitution for real depression. My heart breaks for friends who do suffer from severe depression and they have my utmost respect and gratitude for doing what they must do just to keep showing up day after painful day. Distraction is my most honed tool. The promise of using it got me out of bed, but the usual walk to the Farmer’s Market was not an option today as it is most Sundays. My beloved’s back was suddenly spasming. The perfect distraction. Get busy! Comfort! Do bodywork tricks!  Fetch ice, arnica, herbal palliatives and ibuprofin (for good measure) to help him feel better! After that and breakfast, I busied myself with “tidying up” and entering tax information into Quicken while he watched a movie, cozily ensconced in the recliner - ice pack tucked into the back brace and extra support tucked under his knees.

This time of year may now be one of those seasons of dread for me. It is an anniversary. The slant of the morning light coming in through the patio windows - just so, the quality of the air, what’s blooming in the garden and the dates on the calendar can trigger a gestalt memory of events held deep within my psyche. The body knows what happened last January and is beginning to brace. Perhaps “brace” is what’s at work  also in my husband’s back. Within three weeks of each other, my Aunt Mickey and my Mama Barbara gave up their individual struggles and beckoned Death to carry them away.  My Auntie Lenore preceded them by two years precisely. Since last February first, every date has been the first for my brothers and me without our Mama Barbara. I’m lucky to have had her for sixty three years! Still, I miss her and my Aunties. The old guard is gone. Grim Reaper is honing his sickle and looking sideways at me. (ppfffththtbbb to you, G.R!!)

My sister-in-love had a good idea: “Let’s gather together 2-1-13 (the first anniversary of Mom’s death) and sing - as we did the night she died there in your living room, Mindy." 

"Sure," I enthused, "We can break bread, have a toast and share something sweet in gratitude for her life well-lived.”

And so we shall! Planning, shopping, cooking and cleaning will be a great distraction to keep me out of the muck. I think I'll make Tom Kha Gai Soup, Kale Salad and Shepherd's Pie - recipes our older daughter made when she came from the north to cater her grandma's passing. Surely, Paleo Comfort Food will help ease the images of those last uncomfortable hours. Anyone know where I can by Kafir Lime Leaves, Lemon Grass and Thai peppers?

Work-horses don’t usually get the blues. Mercifully, I know how to be one of those.

Spanish Dancers

Approaching the park this morning on my way back from the post office, I saw a tree trimmer in the morning light busy at his task of un-bearding the palms. In the distance were a man, a dog and a ball. Beyond them was a woman who appeared to be jumping in place. As I got closer and saw the profile of high-heeled shoes I recognized that she was practicing zapateado, the passionate, rhythmic foot-stomping component of Flamenco and Classical Spanish dance. As I got closer still my curiosity was assuaged. How could she practice on grass and dirt and still get that crisp sound? Ah, she had a 24 inch square of wood on which she was practicing. The sound and sight brought back a whole Gestalt of a period of my life when any flat surface was an invitation to practice mi zapateado. 

Apartment dwelling has its ups and downs. If you live on the top floor, you don’t practice zapateado unless you’re certain your downstairs neighbors are not home. I remember well, those apartment years.

Jose Fernandez, my teacher of classical Spanish dance, had touted me on a hole-in-the-wall shoe store in Echo Park where the proprietress had some old Capezio shoes for sale. They were RED, made in 1920, fit me perfectly and had steel rods through the 3 inch heels so they made a terrific sound. I still have those shoes and once in a while strap them on to practice on our hardwood floors… no worries now about downstairs neighbors.

It was the summer of 1965, end of Eleventh grade... just before the start of my senior year. A family, for whose kids I baby-sat, was moving away. Bob was an artist of some note; Ruthie a stay-at-home-mom and member of my dance class. They were selling their 1954 too fine, two tone Chevy… yellow and green with a chrome dash that must have been 14 feet wide. Only one previous owner… the proverbial little old lady from Pasadena, this was the car of my dreams! And only $150. Bob threw in one of his paintings of dried Indian corn. I was off! That car and I had many adventures, but that’s another story…

Friday nights would find me picking up Ruth and driving to Falcon Studios on Hollywood Boulevard. Sarah 5, and Amy 3, would want me to stay and read stories. We had many good times as I read aloud to them with (very) dramatic interpretations. But that too is another story!

When we got to the studio we’d invariably hear Magdalena and her husband Jose squabbling about money or the musicians – two guitarists played for us most nights. This night there was only Manuel. He was cleaning the short fingernails of his left hand with the incredibly long fingernails of his right hand. Those nails could coax magic out of his otherwise unremarkable guitar.

Jose clapped his hands and the half-dozen or so dancers gathered behind Magdalena to rehearse the piece we were to perform at Plummer Park in only two weeks time. Sibelius. Haunting. Jose’s choreography had us pounding down into the earth with feet and on our knees, slowly dragging one leg and then the other while the torso, arms and neck craned like birds forbidden the open skies… pining, yearning, straining to be free from earthly bonds. 

Jose told us that in old times classical Spanish dancers wore corsets with whale-bone stays sharpened to a point on top so that they didn’t dare let down or their breasts would be pierced. The story was evocative enough that Ruth and I kept our backs ram-rod straight and our shoulders back, heart centers open to that sky of freedom promised but withheld. No let down! No pierced breasts for us! 

Ruth was my roll model in this department. I had never met anyone so flat-chested as she was. My 32 triple A bra size had always been a cause of great concern. I kept expecting to grow… you know what they say… expectation is pre-meditated disappointment. I spent my entire adolescence sorely disappointed. “When is the magic going to happen to me? When am I going to grow breasts?” Ruth pointed out that although she was even flatter than I, she successfully nursed her two beautiful daughters. Flatness did not determine nor deter function. I remembered that when, as a new nursing mom I looked like Dolly Parton and had more milk than I could use for my babies so became a regular donor to a milk bank through our pediatrician in Hollywood.

Jose applauded us at the end of our castanet chorus. With tears in his eyes, with his best English, heavily accented by his native Castellano (Castilian Spanish) he told us, “That was excruciating!”  Magdalena corrected, “Exquisite!”

The castanuellas (castanets) that Jose had crafted for me out of teak were gorgeous and sounded delicate yet solid. By his own reckoning they were the finest pair he’d crafted. I had seen him in front of their garage sanding and working blocks of wood until they gleamed and shone in their scallop shell-like form. His emphysema was getting worse and he coughed until the tears came. His hands trembled as he fixed the ropes to my thumbs and had me play for him.

So, the day before the performance Jose calls me up and claims Magdalena’s castanets had gone missing and could she borrow mine and he’d loan me another pair until after the Plummer Park gig and I could hear her in the background telling him what to say. She was our soloist and most revered performer. With long flowing black hair she had the classic profile, high cheek bones and brow and the perpetual look of brooding so typical of Spanish dancers. She was also extremely possessive and jealous. Even with our spit curls, Ruth with her blue saucer eyes and hip length straight brown hair and I in my freckles and red hair couldn’t approach the look. We knew it was the right thing to do, but my hands trembled as I handed over my castanets to Magdalena.

The performance came of without a hitch, except that during one of her passionate earth-grinding zapateado solos, Magdalena’s petticoat worked its way down and with a graceful flourish of foot she kicked it off into the wings and kept on dancing. The audience cheered.

After the performance, Jose claimed that this pair of castanets had gone missing and that he’d make me another. Indeed he did start them… black ebony, filled with such promise. Alas, Jose sickened and died of his emphysema before he could finish them. I still practice sometimes with these clunky, un-tuned, un-polished castanuelas.  Perhaps I’ll take them down to the park one morning… along with my red shoes.

Tracking Circular Progress in the New Year

While I love the idea of riding on a train, I do not want to live my life on a single track. I prefer the image of meandering this way and that - unshod - over soft paths grown over by grasses and maybe an edible plant or two.

Too long on the asphalt and concrete, let alone steel rails, makes me squeamish. My feet begin to curl - itchin’ to be bare and to feel the dirt and weeds in all their spendiferous textures.

Too long hearing the radio or any mass communication media and being too many hours under electric lights, which mask the changing of the days and seasons, makes me hungry for camping out and sleeping under the stars. I want to dance to the rhythms of the cosmos. I want to ebb and flow like the tide, bluster and hail, lightning and thunder, drip and scorch - like real weather. I want to smell the spring apples budding - so tenderly green, sweetly flowering in that perfect white tissue pink blush way, and then the over-abundance fermenting as full ripe fruit at the foot of their mam - their brother and sister apples having fed hordes of happy horses and cheeky children.

Why am I so eager for summer to return when it has only just departed? 

Gettin’ old. Recognizing the metaphor of Winter as Death. Each pause at this dark time of year brings with it the vivid urgency of getting on with it before there’s no more life left in me.

So, what do train tracks symbolize? Why do I want to steal off the steel and into the grassy paths leading to sunset on my own recognizance? 

Cleaning out my clothes closet today, I felt the righting gesture of steel beneath my every move. “One is supposed to clean away the old, Melinda, before embarking on a new adventure.” I hear my Grammy Stern’s prim voice as if she were next to me, her blue veined hands crossed low over her belly - fingers never quite reaching her pubic bone, which is where mine land without effort. She must’ve used considerable effort to keep from touching herself. 

Yes, but... I’d love to be at the Mad Hatter’s tea party where, once done with the goodies on your plate, you simply move seat and enjoy what’s there on the next plate... never mind the tidying up!

It does feel good to be DONE with (some of) these pesky “Start Of New Year” (“SONY”) chores. Still dreaming of AWOL. Can’t I play hooky without getting so far off track that I lose all perspective and reasonable resemblance of my accepted/acceptable self? 

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Pleased with my progress after the closet clean-out, putting Christmas away, and organizing one file drawer, I take a walk in the most glorious part of the afternoon. Black clouds make the rain-washed greens glisten with life. Red-leaved Liquid Amber and Camphor trees catch and hold onto the sun’s light ferociously - as if in a heated contest of whose light is more searing. (Silly trees, don’t you know you’re lit-up by that distant star? Yes, you have your internal life force, but it is dependent upon Earth and Sun.)

I guess tracks are for convention... to convene with other folks...a point of reference, a common meeting ground. Couldn’t we meet up under the oaks as in times gone by? I prefer to sit in a circle than to stand in line.

DUH! Light bulb over my head! 

Every little boy I ever met builds long roads and tall towers with the blocks, leggos,and  tinker-what-evers. Every little girl I ever met, in the course of teaching nursery school and in the wide world, builds nests and circles the blocks into cozy houses and protected corners. Is the biological imperative so strong that we’re always enacting “sperm behavior” and “ovum behavior?” (Sperm Behavior: I don’t know where I’m going but I gotta get there fast and I gotta be FIRST or I’ll explode! Don’t wanna lose my head, but it just might be worth it! Ovum Behavior: Lyrics from West Side Story: “Something’s comin’ I don’t know what it is, but it is gonna be grand.” I’ll just sit here round and soft and wait to meet it and envelop it.

As a gal person, I’m kind of an “egg” head.

Perhaps I’m railing against rails because I’m tired of being dissed for being a woman. The media are full of the rape/death of a twenty three year old woman in India, and even as I’m horrified that it happened, I’m glad of the thinking and conversations that are being stirred by the tragedy. That we live in a patriarchichal world and are suffering from the imbalance is patently blatant. The earth herself is showing signs of our uncurtailed hubris. Global change is accepted as fact in nearly all political camps. Finding our way outa dis mess gonna take all of us - ALL GENDERS working together.

I see signs that the goddess is rising. Over one hundred women have taken their seats in our new Congress. Pakistani women are making inroads to get their daughters educated. Gabby Giffords and Malala Yousufzai have risen from the ashes. Our president is steering the nation toward healthy debate over whether or not assault weapons are appropriate “protection” for those who wish to own guns. Sperm Behavior run amok means you think you need to have big scary weapons because you're frightened of being enveloped.

Momentum is building. Rounding off the sharp edges of a paternalistic world view does not mean we’re “going in circles.”

Imagine a train that has no track but hovers above the land - not scarring it. Imagine that we control our destiny and destination with our heart-mind. The conveyance takes us to our heart’s desire quietly. No person, critter or landscape has been harmed in this journey. Meandering likely.

Anyone for a ride?

All Aboard!